Through Your Darkest Hours
by FinnFiona
Summary: D'Artagnan learns how three of the King's Musketeers, once seemingly placed on unlike paths, came to be all for one and one for all. Set sometime after Series 1, Episode 4 of the BBC program.


**Author's Note**: They made a point to reference both the events of Savoy and Athos' departure from his family home as five years prior to the show's present day. This was an alignment too perfect to pass up. My first foray into this fandom, but I couldn't resist these guys... hope I did them justice.

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><p>It was a perfect day. A day equal parts sun and wind, the kind d'Artagnan loved as a boy in Gascony. The kind he missed terribly, in truth.<p>

Yet the memory did not sting so sharply as it once did, surrounded as he was by new friends, and a growing sense of purpose. He sighed happily as the sun beat down on his upturned face, trying in vain to listen to Aramis explain the finer points of cleaning one's musket. His words mixed with the rustle of wind in the rafters behind, and the sound of steel ringing out in the garrison yard before them, as Athos drilled a few would-be recruits in the sword.

Yes, it was a perfect day.

"Does he still seem a trifle... off, to you?" the shift in Aramis' tone caught d'Artagnan's attention. He followed his friend's concerned gaze to where Athos was pulling one of the young men to his feet.

It seemed an odd comment to make about a man who had just defeated another ready soldier in less than ten strokes of his blade. And yet their time on Athos' family estate was not so long past, and d'Artagnan could readily recall the flames in his mind's eye... If the memory still whispered through his own dreams, no doubt it – and whatever else had transpired those days – continued to plague Athos' already troubled soul.

But d'Artagnan would not betray the older Musketeer's confidence, so he only shrugged and said, "He seems fine." It was not a lie, as d'Artagnan could not actually detect a difference in Athos. Of course, he was notoriously unreadable for a reason... Though perhaps not to his oldest friends, d'Artagnan thought, seeing Aramis' frown deepen.

Aramis hummed his skepticism, watching. "If there is aught to trouble him, I pray he will heed his own advice, at least," he murmured, almost to himself.

"What advice is that?" d'Artagnan queried, curious.

Despite whatever Constance might say to the contrary, d'Artagnan was perceptive enough to notice the cloud that passed over Aramis' face at that. "Forgive me," he added hastily, "I should not have pried."

Aramis turned away from the yard at last, offering a smile, though it did not reach his eyes. "No, no," he assured the young Gascon, "it's quite alright." He paused, thoughtful, a more genuine expression creasing his features. "Is it possible we have not yet told you how we came to serve together?"

D'Artagnan made a valiant attempt to keep his eagerness from spilling through as he shook his head. How he had never thought to ask for this story, he did not know – though perhaps it was because the thought of these three men ever _not _serving together was passing strange.

"Well," Aramis began, "Athos was the last of us to join the regiment. Treville brought him on at Madame Bonacieux's recommendation," he added with twinkle in his eye, "did you know that?"

D'Artagnan had not, and said as much.

"It wasn't all her doing, I suppose," Aramis continued. "Some business with saving the garrison, as well," he shrugged, "I wasn't here."

This had the makings of another good story, d'Artagnan thought, and he made a mental note to ask Constance later. "If you had been here, surely you would have been the hero of the day, then," he added instead, with a healthy smirk.

"Quite right," Aramis agreed, grinning. "Anyhow, our friend Athos, shockingly, was not the most garrulous of fellows. Cultivated a most solitary air, if you can believe it."

D'Artagnan snorted. That sounded like Athos.

"The Captain sent him on a number of one-man missions, which suited him, I suppose," Aramis watched the man he spoke of cross swords with a more worthy opponent. "The missions grew more sensitive, and Treville placed a good deal of well-earned trust in Athos."

"Our friend is the soul of discretion," d'Artagnan could see why Captain Treville would make such a choice.

"And honor and duty and many other things besides," Aramis agreed. "I believe the Captain was the first to recognize Athos' natural gifts of leadership as well, and rewarded him accordingly with increasing responsibility... Though as little time as Athos spent with the men in those days, it would have taken an eye as keen as Treville's to notice the talent."

"And you?" d'Artagnan asked. "Where were you in these times?"

"I was being a good soldier," Aramis' smile turned nostalgic. "An excellent marksman, a lover of women, an affable presence on the field as well as off."

"So nothing's changed, then?" d'Artagnan laughed lightly at Aramis' confident description.

And just like that, the dark cloud was back. "Something always changes," Aramis answered quietly. Before d'Artagnan had the chance to apologize again, Aramis continued. "Athos had been in the regiment well less than half a year when I was sent with a full host of Musketeers on a training exercise. In Savoy."

It was d'Artagnan's face that darkened this time. He knew this story, and he did not like it.

"When I returned..." Aramis drew a deep breath. "Well, needless to say I was not the radiant presence you see before you now," he spread his arms wide, though the attempt at levity fell flat. "I was not myself, and I fear it drove everyone from me."

"What?" d'Artagnan sputtered, taken aback. "They left you alone in your grief?"

"Do not blame them," Aramis said, somber. "I was not good company. They did not know what to do with my distress, and I was as like as not to snap viciously at any attempts at commiseration or camaraderie. My fellows were at a loss."

"Even Porthos?" d'Artagnan asked, still shocked that a brotherhood as storied as the King's Musketeers could stand idly by at such a time.

"Ah," a small smile graced Aramis' lips, then, "I recall he was one of those who made a valiant effort to cheer me, but I did not know Porthos so well in those days. He joined us from the royal armies not long before Athos. A battlefield commission. I believe he thought – quite mistakenly, of course – that the circumstances of his birth and color of his skin made him somehow unwelcome in our ranks. I had intended to do something about that, before..."

D'Artagnan's frown was not fading. "Still," he insisted, "that's terrible, leaving you to your own devices at a time like that."

"All was not lost, my young friend," Aramis patted d'Artagnan's knee. "Our story has a happy ending, remember? And our dear Athos," he gestured to the continued swordfighting, "was not so afraid of a little dark humour."

"Athos?" d'Artagnan watched the man across the yard with an even deeper respect.

"The very same," Aramis confirmed fondly. "He stood next to me at morning briefing, helped me with my duties in the armory, and brought his bowl to the far end of the dinner table I'd staked out as my own personal hell on earth. Rarely said a word, mind you, but he was there. That is, until one day...

_...Aramis glanced up, unsurprised to find a familiar face had taken residence across the trestle. He settled himself back to his charger of broth, expecting to continue his meal in silence, as he had for the past fortnight. _

_Tonight, however, it seemed he would be surprised. "I should like to be better use with this," his companion laid his pistol on the table. "I hear you're the best man for the job."_

_Aramis stared at the weapon, a surge of bile rising in his throat. "Athos..." he spoke the man's name, a rarity he hoped would get the elder Musketeer's attention. Surely he could see the tremor in Aramis' hands, much as he might try to hide it. And how could he have missed the clatter of his spoon in his bowl, these past days? The very clatter that rang out louder than churchbells in his ears just now, in fact._

_Athos studied him, a penetrating stare that was somehow more comfort than fearsome - though Aramis had seen it employed in the latter vein. "You need not hold the weapon, Aramis," Athos returned the gun to its holster, taking up his cut of bread, "simply show me how to use it with some greater degree of skill."_

_Aramis hesitated, yet when he searched for it, the constant pressure of his nightmares was not so close at hand. _

_"Very well," he agreed, standing abruptly, pushing back his mostly untouched soup. He caught the averted glances in his direction, and for the first time felt a measure of self-consciousness at his disheveled appearance. _

_"What, now?" Athos stared up, drolly. _

_"No time like the present," Aramis attempted a quip around a shaky breath. He thought he detected a trace of a smile behind Athos' normally impassive features, but it was gone before he could tell for certain. _

_"Good," Athos stood, turning towards the central bailey. "You there," he called to a young Musketeer leaning against a far pillar. "It is Porthos, correct?" The other man nodded, moving towards them. "Help us with those targets," he pointed to the bullseyes at the far end of the yard._

_Porthos obliged, and they erected a practice area away from the hubbub of the evening meal. "It's shooting practice, is it?" he asked when Athos began preparing a few charges. "Could I have a go, then?"_

_"Certainly," Athos replied, before Aramis had a chance to protest. More witness to this folly was the last thing he needed. "Though I shouldn't think you'd need the help," Athos continued, "I saw you shoot a man clean off his horse just last week."_

_"Aw," Porthos ducked his head bashfully, "that was part luck, I admit. I've always been better with these," he held up his broad hands, bare knuckles flexed. Aramis had to allow that the accompanying grin was infectious. _

_And so it began, the three of them entering into an unspoken training regimen, each leading according to their skills with gun, sword, and fist. On some level, Aramis knew it was doing him a measure of good. He found he did not simply float through the menial tasks assigned him near so often. He stared in wonder as he one day picked up a weapon on instinct, fingers steady as rock and board. His mind felt clearer than it had since... _since_. _

_Yet, even as days of hard training turned into nights of hard drinking _– _helped along by the fact that Athos could well outlast both he and Porthos in the imbibing of spirits _– _Aramis could not shake his underlying disquiet. He feared he was not moving forward, but simply distracting himself from the pain and anger that had been his constant companions since that fateful night in the forest. And even on his more optimistic days, when some sort of future did seem possible, Aramis' guilt at the very idea would soon threaten to overwhelm him. _

_"Oi!" Porthos called out one night from their seats by the tavern hearth. "Another round, here! What's taking the girl so bloody long?" he stood unsteadily, lurching off to find their overdue ale. _

_Aramis barely heard him. It was too loud, much too loud. No louder than normal, truly, but in his mind every clang and shout and peal of laughter set his heart beating an answering rhythm in his chest, his head a pounding drum in his skull. _

_It was times like these, times that came on less and less but all the more unexpectedly besides, that Aramis thought he would never recover his former self. How could he, when he felt a caged animal waiting to lash out, a musket ready to fire or - more like - explode inward on itself. _

_"Aramis," Athos' tone was quiet, but it cut through the haze sharper than a headman's axe. "Did you hear me?"_

_"I am sorry, my friend," Aramis replied shakily. "My mind will give me no quarter tonight. Perhaps it would be best if I left the revelry to those capable of it."_

_Aramis made to stand, but Athos' hand on his arm _– _light, but no less commanding _– _stilled his progress. "I, too, know something of ghosts better left in the past," he spoke in clipped tones. "You cannot simply outrun them."_

_Aramis paused, momentarily defiant, before all the strength rushed out of him. "I don't want to outrun them," he sat heavily, head dropping in his hands. "Only how can I stop them from dogging my every step? And yet, how can I ask that _– _how can I complain of suffering when I am, at least, still here?" He stared intently at the grain of the table, finishing in naught more than a whisper, "How can I live when they are all gone?"_

_Aramis had not realized how much these questions had been eating at him until they poured unbidden from his lips. He felt the flush of shame rise in his cheeks, and hesitated to meet the older man's gaze until the resounding silence gave him no choice. _

_Athos, it seemed, was only waiting for Aramis' full attention. "You can live," he said firmly, though not unkindly, "because to do otherwise would be a discredit to their memories and a dishonor to their sacrifice. And," he added, "you can remember that you are not alone in this."_

_And the thing of it was, Aramis believed him. _

_"What'd I miss?" Porthos rejoined them, three tankards sloshing their contents onto the wood tabletop. _

_Athos leaned back, the brim of his hat shrouding his eyes. Left to respond, Aramis cleared his throat, "I was just commenting that we are not nearly drunk enough yet."_

_"Well I have just the remedy," Porthos grinned, pushing a glass to each of them and raising his own. "To getting blindingly drunk."_

_They all drank to that, and to more besides. And as the nights and days went by, Aramis found himself leaving his nightmares more and more often in the shadows, where they belonged. _

_Ever the early riser, Aramis was surprised one morning to find that Athos had not only already arrived at the garrison, but had time enough to see the Captain. _

_"Aramis!" Treville called down before he had a chance to question this rare occurrence. He tried to catch Athos' eye as they passed on the stair, but the other man barely inclined his head in greeting. _

_"Has something happened, Captain?" Aramis asked once he'd entered the office. He felt a chill, some too-large part of him deadly afraid of the answer. _

_"Athos has just accepted the King's promotion to Second Lieutenant. He has asked if you would do him the honor of serving permanently under his command," Treville intoned evenly. _

_Aramis felt his shoulders sag with relief. And though it was his Captain speaking, he recognized Athos' voice in the choice of words. "How very like Athos to put it that way," he smiled, "the honor would be mine."_

_"Good," Treville said simply, returning to his desk and a precarious stack of scrolls. He looked up when Aramis didn't move to leave. "Was there something else?"_

_Aramis fiddled with his hat, meeting the Captain's level gaze. "Only... Well, why should he ask for me, sir?"_

_Treville's features softened, and Aramis knew there was a time he would not have thought to ask that question. That time, however, had passed, and work remained before he would recover its spirit. _

_"You must know you still have friends here, Aramis," Treville replied at last, in lieu of a true answer. _

_Aramis nodded. That was starting to sink in. "How many others in this command, sir?"_

_"Just you and Porthos," Treville answered, all business once more. _

_"A small company," Aramis chuckled. _

_"Athos assured me it was all that would be necessary," Treville raised an eyebrow. _

_Aramis' chest swelled with pride and the beginnings of confidence _– _something he hadn't felt in a very long time. "Quite right," he straightened his posture, "we won't let you down, sir."_

_Athos was waiting at the foot of the stairs when Aramis emerged. He only looked up when Aramis reached the ground, features as schooled as ever. Yet when Aramis broke into a wide grin, he was sure he saw the relief in the other man's eyes. _

_"Thank you, my friend," he said sincerely, clapping Athos on the shoulder. _

_The older man shrugged. "Misery loves company," he offered in a tone so dry it was like to parch the River Seine. _

_Aramis' smile broadened as they began to walk from the yard. "I promise you," he replied, "I shall not be miserable for long."_

_Athos glanced sideways at him with a knowing smirk. "I shall hold you to that..._

...And I suppose you kept your promise?" d'Artagnan grinned.

"I'll let you be the judge of that," Aramis responded, corner of his mouth upturned. "But I do know Athos saved my life in those months," he turned serious. "Porthos, too. Even before we had ever faced the enemy together in battle."

D'Artagnan nodded, contemplative. He was beginning to understand what Aramis had meant about Athos following his own advice. Though somehow d'Artagnan suspected that with Athos, it would not be easy.

"What are you two staring at?" the man himself asked as he strode over to them, tossing the blunted training rapier down on the table and buttoning his surcoat.

Athos raised an eyebrow as Aramis and d'Artagnan shared a look. "Forget I asked," he added wryly. "Now, where is Porthos with his promised wine?"

He strode off, ignoring Aramis' laughter that followed him. "So," he chuckled, turning back to d'Artagnan with a reassured amusement, "he's fine then."

D'Artagnan agreed, hoping that proved true. Though at least with these three men, he thought, he need not worry so much if it got a bit darker before the light came again.


End file.
